Working as a police officer in Mexico

Aside from Victor, the situation in the Southern Mexico Region also remained unstable, with rebels now rising up everywhere.

Would he end up like Louis XVI?

Getting his head chopped off?

Carlos looked at him, his eyes calm. Having spent so much time with Cuauhtémoc, he knew the other man was actually "mediocre," with no special abilities. Without the Governor's help, his position wouldn't have been stable at all.

But he was good at one thing— "obeying."

Those who obey always get fed.

"Let's move the capital," Carlos said. Cuauhtémoc stared at him, his eyes wide.

"The Governor has an army of a hundred thousand, the love of the people, a stable political scene, Mexico is in the North!"

"If Victor has a hundred thousand soldiers, he can send them south to suppress them all," Cuauhtémoc said, his eyes red, sounding more like a gambler.

Carlos looked at him, his eyes complex, took a deep breath, and said meaningfully, "If Mexico were rid of the bandits, it would truly be in danger."

He was no longer the naive police officer who put himself "on the knife's edge." Following Cuauhtémoc, his political acumen had risen quickly, and likewise, he knew he had to use his brain.

It seemed he understood something.

Of course, the Governor with all his soldiers could rampage without any concerns, sacrificing more people if necessary, but why didn't he do it?

Was it really for a steady, solid victory?

Perhaps, it was also to foster strength in one's enemy!

If there were no more Mexican drug traffickers, according to the Governor's ambition, Victor's guns could only point at a few small countries in Central America. Eventually, that would lead to a confrontation with the United States, but it wasn't time yet. The armaments were insufficient, the soldiers too few!

Don't you think, when Mexico is in complete chaos and the people are desperate, the sudden appearance of a strong man would be seen as the "light of hope"?

Victor... very cunning.

Maybe he was just waiting for Mexico to really descend into chaos, then, when the domestic whatever bullshit families and classes were all messed up, he would jump out. Who would dare to sing a different tune then?

Cuauhtémoc had a lost look in his eyes, somewhat confused.

Carlos sighed quietly, straightened up, and said, "Chaos is needed to create a new order, sir, let's relocate the capital, Tijuana is more suitable than Mexico City."

"I... I'll think about it, I'll think about it," Cuauhtémoc murmured to himself, afraid to make a decision.

Carlos didn't urge him, just left on his own. As he stepped out of the National Palace, the sky gradually darkened. He looked up at the clouds.

"The wind is picking up."

...

The southern states were in complete disarray.

As the legitimate authority of the North, a statement had to be made!

"Any act that dares to provoke, threaten, intimidate, or undermine the security of Mexico is courting death!"

"The Northern Governorship will not allow it!"

"Ordering the Chiapas State Rebels to lay down their arms, demanding other armed forces to surrender on the spot!"

"Otherwise, in the name of Victor! There will be a bloodbath!"

The spokesperson of the Governor's Mansion issued the final notice calmly yet with extreme resolve.

But obviously, the other side wouldn't listen— what a joke, just because you say surrender, we should surrender, do you think Liberation Theology means Theology of Surrender?

Impossible!

At 3 a.m. on September 29, 1990!

20 Mustang P-51s took to the sky in formation, flew over Chiapas State under the cover of night, and bombed the Theological Army Base Camp.

The shrill sound of explosions echoed through the sky.

Suddenly flames penetrated the entire sky.

"Aaahhhh!!!" Below, an angry Indigenous man with swollen eyes fired his gun into the sky.

But how could bullets hit planes?

Whoosh!~

A bomb whistled down from the sky, exploding not far away, flipping him over to lie on the ground, taking deep breaths, with blood seeping from his nostrils and ears.

His gaze was a bit fuzzy.

He reached out his hand…

He saw them, his parents who had starved to death and his brothers worked to death by the Mexican Government. He opened his mouth, "Mom…"

What was his fault? He just wanted to live.

How is one to live in Chiapas State!
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How is an Indigenous person to live!

He too wanted a swing hanging at the door.

A clear blue sky, origami cranes outside the window...

"To live..."

"I want to live!"

The hand of the Indigenous man fell heavily to the ground as he closed his eyes.

His panicked companions stepped over his corpse as they ran away in terror, screaming...

Manfred von Richthofen, back at his post, looked down at the flames and the morning twilight rising side by side in the sky.

He took out his camera and snapped a picture.

"How beautiful," he whispered.

If only there were no goddamn war!

But that wasn't something for Manfred von Richthofen to consider.

In the name of Victor, there would be a massacre!

"Two unidentified aircraft spotted approaching from the east, Manfred, Ernst, proceed to engage," the order came through his headset from the flight commander.

He pulled the control stick, "Understood!"

Two P-51s broke formation and headed east. After about three minutes of flying, they finally saw the "visitors."

"Guatemalan Air Force," his companion Ernst Udet, with sharp eyes, had already spotted the adversary, "They like to put chrysanthemums on their bodies."

His snark was almost deadly.

But actually, it wasn't a chrysanthemum, just an air force emblem.

Manfred von Richthofen also saw clearly, they were two A-37 attack aircraft, nicknamed "Dragonfly," based on the development from the T-37 for ground attacks.

Quite a few countries in the Latin American region still used them.